Transitions
by Chase998
Summary: Twenty years later, an old enemy appears on the horizon to polarize Jon Power and rebels determined to bring freedom to humanity.


**Originally written for 20th. captainpower. com, the twentieth anniversary of Captain Power. It was in response to a challenge to describe the state of affairs in 2167 - twenty years down the road for the characters. Be sure to check out the site and see all the wonderful interviews with the cast and crew!**

**As usual, I don't own the characters. I just borrow them for amusement.**

**Transitions**

Volcania was finally orderly. Lord Dread had crossed over, succeeding in becoming one with the machines. He ruled over all, and he did so without any real physical being. He was in the machine now, watching over everything. The human beings who remained in his service did so because they had proven their worth and their commitment to destiny – the will of the machines. Perhaps one day, Lord Dread would allow the chosen to join him in that realm. Until then, they would have to serve as best they could in their corporeal form.

His mind worked faster and better than ever, allowing him to design and bring to fruition the next evolution of machines. The new ones were a technological marvel, far exceeding anything that had been designed. The new warriors in his arsenal regenerated at a rate of nineteen times faster than the older models, making them battlefield-effective and nearly impossible to kill.

Lieutenant Halloran sat at his lab table, viewing the orders for the day. He had been informed several days earlier that Blastarr, one of Lord Dread's original war machines, was to be cycled for resources for the newer models. Halloran was not sure what he was supposed to salvage, exactly, but Lord Dread's orders had been clear – Blastarr was to be dismantled and taken out of service. First, any remaining engrams would be drained. Then, Blastarr's memory module was to be wiped. Finally, the power core would be removed, effectively deactivating Lord Dread's first attempt at machine construction twenty-seven years earlier. The ordnance crews had already taken the liberty of removing the unit's weaponry, surely retaining a keepsake or two from the task. It was a historic piece of machinery.

He read the data of the order to the end, right down to the last line. As if on cue, the lab door slid open and Blastarr clomped into the room. It seemed such a prehistoric model to Halloran, who was used to dealing with the newer, sleeker models. Still, this was rather an honor for the young officer to be charged with the final disposition of the pioneer machine. He felt as though he was making his mark in history. Somewhere, the texts might mention his name as the one entrusted to transition the machines into Lord Dread's resource pool once their usefulness was done.

"Blastarr unit," Halloran called out, rising from his lab chair, "come here and lock struts in passive mode."

Blastarr complied, but not before a growl escaped its voice synthesizer at being told what to do by mere human flesh. It did not faze Halloran. He knew that demeanor would be a distant memory once the recycling was complete. The machine would be in its infantile state, having lost its sense of mission and being with the wipe. Only the initial operating system would remain. He allowed Blastarr to have its moment, for it would never come again.

The sound of Blastarr's struts locking into place glanced off the polished walls of the pristine room. High curved ceilings created a cone shape, not unlike Volcania, itself. Blastarr might have been able to touch the pinnacle of the ceiling if Halloran had not ordered it to fold in upon itself.

"Release your engram module," Halloran ordered.

There was a moment of hesitation on the part of the machine. Again, there was a slight growl of resistance.

"Release your engram module. That's an order," Halloran said more sternly.

Blastarr looked down at its arm, finally rotating it upward toward the lieutenant. A compartment slid open, and the engram core rose to the surface. Halloran carefully removed the module, though he knew not much remained on it. Most of the older models operated on the barest minimum of resources in order to keep the will of the machines intact.

Halloran lay the engram module carefully on the lab table, taking into account that it was more fragile than the current models, which had been designed to withstand anything rebel forces could throw at it. He picked up a probe and turned toward the unit again.

"This won't hurt a bit," Halloran said, though the point was moot. Machines could not feel pain. They registered damage to vital systems in mathematical calculations.

He placed the probe in the port where the engram module was stored. The memory wipe could be accomplished using the same interface. Halloran was quite proud of the fact that he was more knowledgeable than his counterparts that such a shortcut could be taken to accomplish the same task. Otherwise, it could take a few hours to actually get inside to the memory core, having first to get through the shielding. His method would work in only thirty minutes, maybe less, depending on the size of the memory dump. All this was due to his superior understanding of machine architecture and design.

Halloran activated the probe and let it begin its task. He had set it to simply copy and erase the memory module. Again, it was a timesaving strategy. To completely wipe the memory core would take an eternity. He had written an algorithm when he first learned of the assignment to handle Blastarr's data in packets. Wiping the core would have required the processor to strip away each layer of memory data. With Halloran's method, he was wiping away the surface. What was the use of going any deeper? The core was going to be recycled anyway. No one would any the wiser.

He initiated the protocol he had written and set it to work. Again, Blastarr gave a disapproving rumble at the action but made no move to stop it. Lord Dread had no doubt ordered the machine to cooperate with the directive, and his orders were to be followed by all machines. Halloran sat down in his chair, checking to make sure the process was working. All seemed to be going better than he had anticipated. At the rate he was seeing, he estimated a completion time of twenty-four minutes and seven seconds. Then, all he would have to do was remove the power core, and the task would be complete.

In the meantime, there were other things to be done. Removing the tracker was easy. It lay in another compartment that he opened manually. The small device fit in the palm of his hand and felt warm to the touch as he held it. He bounced it up and down in his palm, feeling its weight, deciding it would make a wonderful decoration in his office – a memento of his work with such a classic machine. Blastarr's head turned to dispassionately observe the action.

True to his estimates, the console sounded an alert that the copy and high level wipe was done. Halloran felt pleased with the accomplishment. However, he knew there were no shortcuts to removing the power core. That would require him to dismantle a great portion of Blastarr's hull to get to it, and there was simply no easy way to do that. He knew that it would be a continuous process once he began and decided to take a small break before embarking on the final phase of Blastarr's decommissioning. He left the room, leaving Blastarr alone.

-----------------------

Isaiah Brown clawed at the hard dirt with a hand shovel, continuing to turn over the row he had started an hour earlier in the day. The sun beat down on his neck. Exposed skin felt hot and weathered in the high plains sun. All the same, he had high hopes for the planting season. They had actually gotten some rain early in the spring, and he had managed to get his collection culverts in place in time. With any luck, it would keep the crops hydrated despite the forecast of yet another dry planting season. He had actually grown a few bushels in the last cycle, and he was determined to do better this season. In any case, it felt good to get dirty for a good reason.

His mind wandered and organized his plans for the settlement, his visions of improvements blossoming with hope. A line of demarcation had been established by the rebel forces, thanks to a heavy recruitment campaign years before that had gotten Isaiah involved in the fight for freedom. More than that, the legendary team led by Captain Power had unlocked the secrets to the suits they wore, giving the human race a weapon that evened the ground against the monstrosities Lord Dread created. Entire fighting units were now equipped to go to war effectively with the merciless machines. The International Council was reestablished, bringing order and protection to the settlements near the front so they could flourish in a time of war.

During the winter, Muriel, his wife of seventeen years, had given Isaiah a book on planting techniques and crop rotations. The manual was ancient, no doubt purchased on the black market, of which he did not approve. Her heart had been in the right place, though, and he loved her for it. He loved her for many things, but her patience in listening to his dreams and ideas was a gift he did not take for granted. Not only did she listen, she encouraged him that things would get better in such a bleak world.

Isaiah had known the worst of what could happen. He had been a frontline soldier for the rebel forces in the fight against Lord Dread and the machines until a barrage of fire took his leg. Muriel had been one of the people to nurse him back to health. Even then, she gave him the drive to keep going. When he decided to craft a prosthetic leg, she was there to help. It was during those long hours that their relationship became one for a lifetime.

He stabbed down into the soil with bulked arms that had not faded from his youth. Small puffs of dry dirt rose into the air and caught on the slight breeze. He felt happy and content, reveling in the smell of earth, arid though it was. It was then he registered a distant noise that froze him mid-motion. He listened intently, not moving for fear he'd lose the track on the source in the breeze that blew across the plains. The sound was so distinct that his skin prickled in alert. He knew it well, knew what caused it.

"Isaiah?" Muriel called sweetly from the back steps of their home. "Lunch is ready."

He held up a hand to quiet her. His heart beat faster as he closed his eyes in an effort to get a fix on the source. It was to the north, and it was moving fast.

He straightened and looked at his wife. "Muriel, go in the house. Get into the cellar and stay there until I come for you," he said, on edge.

"What's happening?" she asked, alarmed.

"Just do as I say," Isaiah said, trying to be firm but gentle to his wife. The fear on her face told him she knew him all too well. It cut him to the core. "Alert the others and tell them to do the same," he said, giving her a small, reassuring smile. "I'm sure it's nothing."

She looked as if she was about to speak, but she held the words at bay. He knew what she would have said – what she said every time there was an incursion by the machines – that she loved him. He would have told her the same. He watched as she turned into their house and vanished down into the cellar entrance. He heard the clapboard door shut and lock once she was safe.

Motion to the left caught his eye. Byron Alito, their neighbor and a fellow veteran, was walking at a fast clip toward Isaiah.

Byron was small in stature, his hair gray and short, revealing a tanned head that had been toughened by the nearly cloudless days. They were considered the elders of the settlement, revered for their service and wisdom exhibited in the metal wars. The tribe, as they had begun to call themselves, looked to Byron and Isaiah for assurance when Lord Dread's forces came too close. Every time, they had managed to keep everyone safe in bunkers and cellars. The machines could not descend into the small spaces underground where the organics hid.

Concern was scrawled on Byron's face, too, for he recognized the sound of an incoming mech. He held two pulse rifles in his hands, tossing one to Isaiah when he was in range.

"On your feet, soldier," Byron said quickly. "We've got incoming, and you're never going to believe what it is."

Byron held out his hand. Isaiah accepted the offer and pulled himself into an upright position, hopping slightly until he could attain his balance on the makeshift leg. There was a hill to the east that they frequently used to look out over the plains for incoming machines. It had good cover, allowing them to conceal their position for a long while in order to get a full assessment on what was approaching.

They lay on their bellies in the dried grass. Scrub brush surrounded them, enveloping them in camouflage. Byron pulled out a monocular from his pocket and looked out into the open plain. Isaiah squinted, his eyes not as good as they used to be. Even with blurred vision, he could make out a shape that seemed so unlikely but one that stirred distant memories in him that would never abate.

"Is that what I think it is?" Isaiah asked Byron.

Byron lowered the monocular and passed it to him. "If I didn't see it with my own eyes, I wouldn't believe it."

Isaiah took his turn with the glass, adjusting it for his imperfect sight that had worsened over the years. All at once, the past came into focus.

"What the hell is that hunk of junk doing way out here?" Isaiah asked, watching the infamous Blastarr lumber across the plain.

"Who knows?" Byron replied. "I think the bigger question is, what do we do about it? If we take it out, I'm sure its cousins will come calling in no time."

Isaiah zoomed in, bringing more of Blastarr into focus. Something odd caught his attention.

"It's not armed," he said in surprise.

"What do you mean?" Byron said in disbelief.

"Take a look for yourself. It's a rolling doorstop," Isaiah said, handing the monocular to Byron.

Byron did and came to the same conclusion. "I'll be damned," he breathed. "It's been stripped clean. No cannons, no nothing." He looked at Isaiah. "What do you want to do?"

The options were clear to Isaiah. "Let's go see what it's doing way out here. If it's a probe, we need to get rid of it now before it reports back to the metalheads."

Byron nodded in agreement. "I'll get the crawler and meet you at your house," he said, backing out of their hiding place.

Isaiah watched the lumbering machine until he heard Byron approach with the crawler. Then, he pushed his way out of the brush and stood, picking his way carefully down the hill. He hauled himself up into the cannon position at the top of the vehicle, taking hold of the turret and feeling a warm familiarity with it. Byron put the crawler in gear and headed out into the plain toward Blastarr.

Isaiah kept the cannon trained on the mech, ready to fire in the event of any erratic moves. He saw Byron look up at him from the driver's position, bringing the crawler to a halt at two hundred meters.

"You going to blow it up some time this week?" Byron queried. "We're not going to get in much closer than this."

"It's unarmed," Isaiah said, his mind raging war of logic.

"It's a mech. Blast it," Byron responded flatly.

Isaiah shook his head. "Get us in closer. If we blow it up, we'll never know why it's out here in the first place." He acknowledged his friend's concern. "We'll keep it in our sights and kill it if we have to."

Byron hesitated but eventually threw the crawler into gear, conceding the need for intel. "You're insane, you know that?"

"No," Isaiah said, "I just can't walk that far to ask it."

At fifty meters, Blastarr turned toward them. Isaiah's grip on the turret tightened in anticipation, but he resisted the urge to fire. He had convinced Byron to get that close, and he now found himself repeating the argument in his head. They needed to know, and they were on the verge of finding out if his command decision had been wrong.

Unexpectedly, Blastarr lurched forward and collapsed into a resting position the mechs used when regenerating. Isaiah had heard it was a stand down mode of operation in the older models, and the rebel forces had used that knowledge to their advantage to take them out when the opportunity presented itself.

Isaiah scarcely breathed as he waited, watching Blastarr, the father of all mechs, put itself in a most vulnerable pose. Nothing happened.

"Get on the cannon," he said to Byron calmly. He began dismounting the crawler. He trudged away from the vehicle, hearing the clanking of Byron's boots on the metal hull as he changed positions.

"Careful," Byron admonished.

Isaiah gave a flick of his hand in acknowledgment, bringing his pulse rifle to bear against the mech. The rifle would not be of much use against the granddaddy of them all, but it might give him enough space to out of the way of the cannon should it be needed.

Even as he approached, he could hear the steady hum of Blastarr's internal power drives whirling. Its tracks had turned to the side, giving it a steady base on which to rest. It looked at Isaiah, monitoring his approach. It remained still save the movement of its head which followed the path of the biological.

Isaiah mustered his nerve, ordering his legs to keep going until he was standing face to face with Blastarr. He kept his weapon raised, knowing it would be practically useless if Blastarr decided to respond. There was no need, though. The machine merely observed Isaiah's movements and remained in passive mode.

"You're a little far from home, aren't you?" he queried the machine, trying to keep his voice calm.

Blastarr suddenly lurched downward, bringing its head in line with Isaiah's. Its red eyes bore into his with a glow that defied the light of high noon, causing his heart to trip a beat or two. Then the mech spoke in a low, gravelly voice.

"Help me."

----------------------

Colonel Robert Baker sat with his feet on his desk and rubbed at tired eyes. He had been staring at supply reports for most of the morning and into the early afternoon, and it had taken its toll. The newly reestablished International Council had tasked him with organizing the technical resources of its new fighting force and making sense of what they had to work with in terms of weaponry and technology. It was a daunting task. There were days he would have preferred much more to be on the front lines fighting than battling the growing bureaucracy that had not forgotten its ways despite the war. Independent rebel groups coveted their ownership of things they were able to scavenge from skirmishes with Dread's forces. They conserved and protected the assets, doling them out to their groups as needed. Now, the IC was asking them to give it up and trust it would be distributed fairly.

Baker had been tapped to give them that assurance. He had been in the business too long to even begin explaining to the newly hatched politicians that the policy would not fly, for he had been one of those rebels once. He knew what it was like to scrap for everything you got. Besides, he thought, there was no way the IC was going to distribute the limited number of suits that had been produced to the rebels. They would go to the formal military that had spent much of its time reading about the art of war instead of practicing it.

Robert leaned back in his chair, letting the taut muscles in his neck relax. He stared at the brand new tiles in the ceiling of his office, gleaming white and pristine, chuckling in irony every time he did so. A war was raging, but the IC had managed to contract builders to make the headquarters pleasant. Annihilation might be around the corner, but the IC was going to look fabulous if it happened.

The comm console chimed, jarring him from his break. He sat up quickly, dropping his feet to the floor and answering the call.

His secretary, Audrey, appeared on the screen. She was young, new to the war effort, unscathed by its more grim side. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, making her look even more adolescent.

"Colonel Baker," she said, "there's a priority one message for you from Settlement Seven-One-Zero," she said.

"They're all priority one," he groused. Every one of the settlements along the front line considered themselves urgent and important when something went wrong.

"He said his name is Isaiah Brown and that he would talk only to you, sir," Audrey said.

"Isaiah?" Robert asked, surprised. His attitude changed completely to one of the urgency that had been requested. "Put him through."

They had been in the fight together where Isaiah lost his limb. It was a brutal night, one that began Robert's gravitation toward administrating the war instead of actively fighting it. He remembered seeing his comrade in shock, bleeding and suffering, cradling him until a medic loaded the sergeant onto a litter and removed him from the front line.

Robert thought perhaps it was the mind's defense against putting itself in any more danger that made him request a rear position for a few weeks, just to get a break. Those few weeks turned into a few months and then into a few years, where he rose in rank from an enlisted man to an officer leading many others in the fight against the machines.

Isaiah's face suddenly filled the screen, bringing a smile to Robert's. "Long time, no see, old man," Baker greeted.

"You're no young pup yourself… Colonel," Isaiah said, almost choking on the rank.

Robert's grin spread at seeing his friend. "To what do I owe this honor, or did you just miss seeing my ugly mug that much?"

Isaiah became serious, concerned. "I think you need to get out of that office. There's something here you're going to want to see."

Robert was taken aback. He was not accustomed to hearing the level-headed Sergeant Major Isaiah Brown, hero of Mortontown, look worried.

"What's going on?"

Isaiah shook his head. "Just get out here as fast as you can. I'll explain when you get here."

"Should I bring reinforcements?" Robert asked warily.

The sergeant considered the question. "I'll let you decide that." He gave half a smile. "See you soon."

Isaiah cut the feed. The screen went dark. Robert sat back again, absorbing the conversation. Then he paged Audrey. Her youthful face appeared on the screen again.

"Yes, sir?"

"Call the hangar and have my transport prepped. Cancel all my calls, and tell General Baronsky that I have to cancel this afternoon's meeting."

"Do you want me to requisition you a pilot, Colonel?"

"No," Robert said, almost too quickly. He calmed a bit when he knew Audrey had picked up on the edge to his voice. "I need some air time," he said. Then he smiled. "Need to keep myself qualified to fly, you know."

Audrey was not buying it, but she complied with his orders. "I'll have the hangar start prepping right away, sir."

"Thank you," he said.

Robert opened up his desk drawer and withdrew his sidearm, something he had not worn for a few years since taking the desk job. That was how long he had been away from the action. He stood and buckled the holster around the waist, pleased he did not have to adjust it at all. It still fit, and it felt comfortable when he fastened the leg band around his thigh, securing the holster. The feeling brought back a flood of memories from his past, churning through his mind at a rapid rate. Everything he believed in, everything he hated, and all those he loved and had lost played in rapid succession, melding together into a lifetime of experiences.

Before he was even really aware, he was at the hangar, just a short walk from his office. His transport stood waiting, with two technicians completing the final flight preparations. They stood at attention and saluted when he neared them. He returned the salute and told them to return to their work. He boarded the transport, sliding comfortably into the cockpit seat. Robert called up the coordinates for Seven-One-Zero and confirmed them in the flight computer.

It was a short trip to the settlement through the jump gates. Only a portion of the network had fallen into Dread's control, presenting where the battle lines had been drawn. Whoever controlled the gates controlled the territory. Seven-One-Zero was in IC control for the moment. It was comforting to know it was guided by two experienced veterans who would know when to sound the alarm to IC forces. He had to trust that Isaiah would on him for good reason. It had to be something worthwhile for the call he had placed.

Seven-One-Zero sat placidly inside a small valley of recovering land. Large flat fields surrounded the basin with a promise that they would one day sustain successful crop rotations. Agriculture was trying to make a comeback. Heartier varieties of vegetation still flourished, but they were of little value to the residents. As in most settlements, the scrub was a nuisance to be overcome by consistent manual labor to keep it at bay. In some ways, it was more destructive than the machines had ever been.

The settlement housing was a world apart from the amenities of the IC's headquarters. Mud bricks had been fashioned by the residents to build stable living units. Some were surprisingly large. Despite the lack of aesthetics, they held a warm look about them, perhaps because they had been built by people who believed there was still a future left for them and their children.

Robert set down where he saw Isaiah and another man standing in an open area to the west of a row of houses. They were dressed in work clothes, which consisted largely of whatever had been salvaged from the dead after the melees with the machines were done. Still, there was orderliness about the two men, a throwback to Isaiah's military service. He could only assume the other man had served, as well.

The transport kicked up a large cloud of dust, temporarily obscuring Robert's view of the settlement until the engines finally whined to a halt. He released his harness and exited the cockpit. The ramp to the transport slid smoothly toward the ground, allowing him to exit and stand on something other than recycled concrete.

The first thing he noticed was the silence. It was comforting for just a few seconds until he realized the silence was all wrong. This was a settlement. Settlements were usually bustling, trying to build in the face of adversity. The lack of activity prompted his hand to settle on the butt of his pistol as he walked toward Isaiah and the other man.

Isaiah held out his hand in greeting as soon as Robert was close enough. "Glad you could make it so quickly, Colonel."

Robert returned the strong grip of the greeting. "The last time you sounded that serious, we were on our way to Mortontown."

Isaiah nodded grimly. "I wish I could say this was a social visit. Truth is, a little bit of the war came calling around lunch today." He looked to the other man. "This is Byron Alito, retired sergeant from the Two-Four-Five Regiment."

Byron shook hands with Robert. "Pleased to meet you, Colonel."

"Likewise," Robert said. "As much as I'm enjoying the reunion, why don't you tell me what's going on. Where is everyone?"

Isaiah looked at Byron. "They're in the bunkers. I think it's best you see rather than hear about why we called you."

They two men turned toward a large barn made from scrap material. Small livestock clucked and scurried out of the way. The smell of what passed for hay from the plains permeated the air from bales that had been stockpiled in the fore of the barn.

There were no lights inside the outbuilding. It took a moment for Robert's eyes to adjust to the contrast from day to shadow. Byron and Isaiah walked ahead of him to where a tarp covered a large object. Each took a side and grasped the covering. They whipped off the covering together at the end of a short countdown.

Robert jumped back and instinctively drew his pistol, aiming it at an arch nemesis from the past. Blastarr did not react to the action. Its head cocked in a curious manner, observing the change in environment.

"What the hell is going on here?" Robert shouted, angry to be surprised, with no warning about what he was about to see.

Isaiah held out his hands, stepping in front of Robert to prevent the officer from firing on the mech. "It's not what you think," he said quickly.

"It's _Blastarr_," Robert said, teeth clenched, anger flashing in his eyes. "Get out of the way."

Byron stood next to his comrade. "Not until you hear us out."

Robert looked at the mech again, conceding the sergeants would not object to blowing it up without good reason. In any case, he was in no position to sacrifice human life to destroy a mech. He lowered his weapon slightly, but his breathing was still heavy with stress.

"This had better be good," he warned.

Relief washed over Isaiah's face at Robert's détente.

"It is," he promised.

They all neared Blastarr for a closer look. Robert holstered his weapon when he realized the mech was in passive mode.

Isaiah pulled the rest of the tarp off Blastarr and pushed it to the side. "It's completely defenseless. It's been stripped down to the bare minimum. I figured this was something more up your alley to make a decision on than us."

"It complied with our commands without hesitation when we found it," Byron added. "No hassles."

Robert carefully drew closer to the mech for a better look, giving them the benefit of the doubt. "What about beacons or trackers?"

Isaiah shook his head. "As far as we can tell, it's clean. We haven't detected any signals, and the port for the tracker is empty. We're limited in equipment here, though. I figured you'd be able to tell better than we could."

There was equipment onboard the transport as a rule, a throwback to his early days as a sergeant on Jon Power's team. There was little call for his analytical services in the field of late, but he took the chance where he could to return to old stomping grounds.

"I have some handhelds with me," he told them. "I'll be right back."

"Do you need any help?" Byron offered.

"No," Robert said, exiting the barn. "Just keep a close eye on your new friend."

He left them standing guard over Blastarr in the barn while he returned to his ship. Once inside, he keyed the comm console for IC Central Command. A lieutenant answered, acknowledging Robert's security code.

"I want a level three security perimeter set up around Settlement Seven-One-Zero. No one in or out until I give the all clear. If it moves and it's not human, I want to know about immediately."

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant answered. "Anything else?"

Robert gave it a thought, realizing the perimeter alert would certainly get the attention of the command staff at headquarters. "Tell General Baronsky I'll explain everything when I get back. Tell him I'm asking for his patience for the moment."

The lieutenant looked confused but agreed to deliver the message. Robert cut the transmission and retrieved some equipment from the cargo hold. Byron had stepped outside the barn, looking for him when it starting taking too long to get back to the scene. He helped Robert carry some of the cases into the barn where Blastarr sat, still in passive mode.

He began opening the cases. Isaiah and Byron stepped back, keeping weapons at the ready as Robert began analyzing the situation.

At first, Robert had no idea where to start. He had longed for years to get inside one of Dread's mechs to see how they worked since the first time he had seen one. Everything known to that point had been purely conjecture based on observation or shaky information smuggled out of the bowels of Volcania. Now, he had his hands on an actual mech, one that was not fighting his attempts to dissect it. It was a bittersweet moment. Blastarr had caused so much pain and torment to people he cared for and to the human race in general that it overshadowed the momentous opportunity with the sting of reality. This machine was a monster, but it was just a machine, he reminded himself.

Robert set to work doing an initial scan of Blastarr's condition. He worked silently and unobstructed by the machine. He kept his guard up at all times, aware that it could be a trap. After nearly an hour of analysis, he sat back and drew a deep breath.

"You're right," he confirmed. "This unit's been stripped of everything. Any idea how it got here?" he asked the men.

Isaiah cradled his rifle in his arms. "Ask it."

"What?"

"Ask it how it got here," the sergeant challenged. "It'll tell you."

Robert had come too far to not accept the bizarre. He looked up at Blastarr. "What's your designation?"

Blastarr's torso straightened to respond. "Unit zero-zero-one."

"That's it?"

"Affirmative."

"What's your directive?"

"Serve the International Council and its officers."

"Who created you?"

"Doctors Lyman Taggart and Stuart Gordon Power."

The answer gave Robert pause. "No Lord Dread?"

"I have no knowledge of that name," Blastarr responded.

"I'd like to confirm that, but it requires me to look at your memory. Will you allow me to do that?"

Blastarr's head turned to its newfound friend in Isaiah.

"He won't do anything, I promise," Isaiah assured the mech. "I wouldn't have had him come here if I thought he'd hurt you."

After a moment, Blastarr extended its arm toward Robert, permitting access to the memory port. He started the analysis of the memory unit. After a moment, the colonel sat back again with a surprised look on his face.

"Well, it's no wonder it has no active memory," he announced. "The core surface has been wiped. It's back to its original programming."

Byron scratched at a brow. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"Well," Robert said, drying his perspiring hands on a rag, "it's tremendously good news, actually. It looks like the wipe wasn't full, just a superficial one. It's a little curious, I'll grant you. In any case, we can take this unit back and remove the core. Then we'll know what Blastarr knows."

All at once, Blastarr rose into offensive mode, towering over Robert. "No!" it barked.

Robert drew his pistol, and Byron brought his rifle to bear against the machine. All at once, Robert regretted retiring the suit he wore for so long in the battle against the machines. He was defenseless save the weapon in his hand.

Isaiah quickly stepped forward to intervene between man and machine. "Wait!" he shouted, skip-hopping to close the gap. "Just wait!" He turned to Blastarr. "Tell him why you're here! Go back to passive and tell him!"

The tension in the barn was electric until Blastarr complied and returned to its kneeling position. Even then, Robert kept his pistol trained on the machine.

"Why did you come here?" Isaiah prompted.

"I am scheduled for termination," Blastarr said. It looked directly at Robert. "I do not wish to be terminated. I require assistance."

"It's afraid it's going to die," Isaiah elaborated. "Apparently, when Dread was having it decommissioned, it saw an order powering it down for good and escaped. It got as far away from Volcania as it could and ended up in one of our fields."

"This mech contains everything we need to know to win the war against Dread," Robert argued.

"It doesn't know what it's done!" Isaiah countered in Blastarr's defense. "If you take it back to the IC, they're going to dissect it and kill it in the process."

"You're damned right! Isaiah, it's killed thousands of people! It took your leg!"

Isaiah was undaunted. "What if it's sentient? Have you ever considered that? What if we're allowing our judgment to be clouded by some twisted man's vision instead of seeing a machine that's evolved?"

"It's a trained killer!"

"No, it's not," Isaiah said quickly. "You said its programming was back to its original state, which means it has no knowledge of anything it's done. It would be like putting someone with brain damage on trial for something he can't remember or even comprehend."

Robert looked intently at Isaiah, their eyes locking. "This could bring an end to the war," the colonel said plainly.

Isaiah stood fast. "There's been enough killing. Maybe we turn the tide just once so that it's enough to make a difference, even if it's with a machine." The corners of his mouth turned downward in seriousness. "There has to be another way. We have an obligation to find it."

Robert saw the passion in Isaiah's argument and knew there was no way the veteran was going to let Blastarr go without a fight. The hot wind kicked up, sending dry dust into the colonel's eyes, causing them to sting and water.

"There's a perimeter unit surrounding the area," he told them, wiping at the wetness pooling in the corner of one eye.

Byron scoffed at the news. "I told you we couldn't trust him," he said to Isaiah.

"I'll call them off," Robert said, trying to reconcile, "but we're going to need to take Blastarr somewhere where I can get to the data without harming the memory module."

"Where?" Isaiah asked. "IC has the only working lab besides Dread's that has anything advanced enough to help."

Robert looked up at Blastarr, still not believing he was actually going to help the mech. A flurry of memories flashed in his mind, so fresh that it seemed like they happened only days earlier. Every fiber of his being told him to finish Blastarr once and for all while the opportunity presented itself and to take what he needed afterward. His oath to protect life, though, was an obligation. What if Isaiah was right, that the mech was sentient? He could not take that chance. He looked at Isaiah, who waited expectantly for an answer.

"I know another."

--------------------

Jon Power lay on his back on the cold concrete floor, reveling in the chill it introduced into his overheated body through the dark coveralls he wore. He looked up at the engine above him, content with his recent accomplishment of converting it from fossil fuel to a magnetron-based unit, hearing its loud hum through the earplugs. It had not been an easy project. He had to customize more parts than he had anticipated, but it had been a good misfortune. It had taken time and kept him occupied. That was something he had been finding difficulty in doing since taking his leave of the International Council Forces. They had given him shiny stars for his epaulets, but they felt heavy on his shoulders from the moment they had been pinned. It was not who he was, nor was it what he had been.

He had paid his dues. He knew that, or at least he felt he deserved to walk away from the fight. His team had led the way to the IC being reestablished. It was his team that had given the government the means to even the playing field between Lord Dread and his tools of destruction. So far, it had been working. People were stepping forward to join the fight. It was their responsibility to carry the torch now. He was done.

Tank had stayed with the IC. He may have been old enough to be a grandfather to those under his command, but he lived for the fight. The last Jon had heard, they had made him a colonel or maybe even a general once Jon had left. In any case, the IC certainly had an asset when it came to his former lieutenant. If anyone knew how to fight, it was Tank.

Scout had taken the same path, though Jon had not kept up too much on his whereabouts. The last he had heard, Robert was still leading the charge, now an officer for the IC, doing what he did best. Jon suspected that Baker's youthful attitude was eternal, though there was no scientific data to support it. In any case, it was what the IC needed to make a difference and maybe win the war some day.

And then there was Hawk. Senior in years to Jon when they had first begun, Matt had been the first to take his leave of command and find some well-earned solitude. He told Jon he had grown weary of always being on the run, always watching his back no matter where he went. He wanted to be alone to make a new way. No one begrudged him that except maybe the politicians in the IC who thought Power's team owed the rest of humanity more than they had already sacrificed.

The politicians did that a lot - siphoning to the end whatever resource was available until there was simply none left to take.

Retirement was easier than Jon ever thought it would be. He had found a piece of land in the mountains amid a surviving crop of pines that had not succumbed to the climate changes induced by the initial strikes of the war. It was removed from civilization, which was just fine with him. It reduced the interest of the machines in the home he had made. The machines relied on populations for engrams and supplies, not on individuals hidden in mountains that were hard to navigate.

He was able to sustain himself by hunting, which he enjoyed. He had managed to secure property in one of the few wooded areas that remained after the war. A small garden rounded out what he needed. In many ways, it was a better life than when they were all a unit in the mountain.

Jon began tightening the bolts on the power plant of the motorcycle when the forward part of the chassis slipped and nearly fell on his head, shutting the down the engine. The sound of metal slamming into the floor jarred his right ear, even through the plug, as the block came to rest at an angle.

"Those things will kill you," sounded a familiar voice from the doorway to the garage.

Jon sat up quickly and ripped the plugs from his ears. Robert Baker stood, leaning against the doorframe, watching the former general work. He looked crisp and orderly in his khaki IC officer uniform. Silver eagles adorned his shoulders, showing how far he had risen in the ranks.

"Scout?" Jon asked, surprised and pleased. It had been three years since they had even spoken.

Robert straightened and came fully into the garage. He stooped down near the bike and shook Jon's hand.

"Good to see you, sir. Been a long time since anyone's called me that."

Jon put the ratchet into a drawer of the toolbox. "You're looking good. How's the war treating you?"

Robert shrugged. "Can't complain. A papercut is about as dangerous as it gets for me these days. They made me an administrator a few years back."

Jon rolled his eyes. "Like they need more of those."

Robert stood up and held out a hand to assist his former commander. "Someone has to do it."

Jon rose up, hearing his knees crack with the action. It took a moment to get to where he could stand without pain. Robert looked at him questioningly and perhaps slightly amused.

"Arthritis," Jon said. "You stop wearing the suit, and real life takes over, you know?"

"Actually, I do," Robert replied. "Quit wearing it when they gave me a desk job. Too hot in this heat to wear it for no reason."

"Yeah, I hear that."

The summer had been so hot. The humidity had risen to an almost unbearable level in the last month. Jon put it to use, though, designing water reclamation and purification systems that supplied him with his own personal source of the sustaining liquid. He offered Robert a bottle of it from the refrigeration unit.

Jon studied Robert. His old sergeant's hair had begun to grey at the temples, but his face still looked young. At one point, Jon had given in to age by growing a beard, maybe in an effort to hide the scar that ran savagely along his jaw. It itched, though, and he ended up shaving it off, deciding that very few people saw him or the scar anyway.

"Thanks," Robert said, taking the offering.

Jon took a swig from his own bottle. "So, to what do I owe this little visit?"

Robert leaned against a workbench. "I came to ask a favor."

"If it's for me to come back, forget it."

"No, not that," Robert said. "I don't know how to put this except to come right out with it. I need to use your lab."

Jon gave a quiet chuckle. "For?"

Baker set the bottle on the workbench and squared himself to Jon. "I found something that I need to study, but the IC will take it into custody if I bring it there."

Jon smiled. "Very rebellious."

"No, I'm doing someone a favor. I could use your help… and understanding."

"What is it?"

Robert shoved his hands into his pockets and borrowed Isaiah's wisdom. "It's probably better if I show you."

With that he headed out the garage door toward the transport that waited there. Jon had not heard it land over the din of the motorcycle's power plant. Robert tapped a command into his wristband, opening the tail of the transport.

Jon rounded the corner toward the rear ramp and was suddenly frozen in his steps. There, hunched down into the cargo area of the transport, sat Blastarr, red eyes looking at him like daggers from the past. It was flanked by two armed human escorts.

"Hear me out before you tell me to blow it up," Robert asked quickly, stepping in front of Jon.

"You've got one minute to explain," Jon threatened icily. "Then I call the IC to get this piece of garbage off my land."

With that warning, Robert gave an encapsulated version of the events that had led to Blastarr's capture. Jon kept a constant watch on the machine, waiting for it to spring a surprise attack.

"So, you see, sir, I can't take it to the IC," Robert concluded. "We have an obligation to help it before we do anything else."

"An obligation?" Power asked, incredulous. Jon shook his head vigorously in dissent. "The only thing we're obligated to do is dismantle it with high yield explosives."

He saw the passion in Robert's eyes, though. It brought him back to their rebel days, when the young sergeant would charge headlong toward a goal, fueled by optimism and a sense of right and wrong. It was apparent that some of that had remained, even though Robert had become battle-hardened in some of the heaviest engagements with the machines.

"I mean, take a look in there," Jon said, thumbing toward the cluttered garage, seeking another avenue of objection. "It's not exactly top-notch stuff. Hell, I stole half of it from the IC. Some of it doesn't even work. Even if I thought this was a stellar idea – and I don't – I'm not even sure I have what you need."

"This machine is something your father helped build, sir," Robert said, trying to bolster his presentation. "I think we can use the information it has, but it's not going to let us if it feels that we're going to destroy it in the process. Given what I've been able to find, destroying it would be just as wrong as killing anything else."

"And what about when we're done milking it? Then what? We just kick it loose to mingle among the organics it used to eat for breakfast?"

Robert sighed. "I'll figure that out if and when we get to that point. Right now, I think Blastarr has a ton of information that could change the tide of the war. I think you know that, too."

Jon's emotions raged with images of the past until Robert interrupted the montage.

"Sir," Robert said, "in the past, you were the only one I could ever trust to understand things I couldn't explain to anyone else. I'm asking for that same understanding right now."

Robert had taken a chance in bringing the machine to Jon's doorstep. He had trusted Scout with his life so many times. They had shed blood together as a team, had sacrificed and lost. If it had been anyone else knocking, Jon would have nixed the entire issue from the start. Robert was an exception, as would anyone else have been who had been on his team. The bond they had begun the fight against Dread with remained strong, even after so many years and despite so many changes.

Jon looked into the transport's bay again, seeing the two older men keeping guard over Blastarr.

"Can they be trusted?" he asked, nodding toward them.

"Sergeants Brown and Alito. They're the ones who called me. They're retired infantry, and they'll be there if anything goes wrong."

Jon was quiet for a moment. "You have no idea what you're asking."

"If anyone does, I do, sir. That's why I brought it here and not to the IC. I think you've earned the right to be the one to do this."

Crickets chirped in a chorus as the sun began to set, casting dark shadows over the woods. The fading light enhanced the eerie glow of Blastarr's eyes and chest plate, invoking a flood of memories in Jon that he had managed to bury long ago. The mech had been the cause of a number of nightmares Jon would just as soon forget, as if he ever could. Unfortunately, they were not dreams but real memories of real events that had occurred.

Jon thought about his father, who had been instrumental in Blastarr's creation in the first place. It was Doctor Power's vision of a peaceful world that had instigated the creation of the mechs. Mechs were meant to save lives, not take them.

Nevertheless, Robert had a point. If Blastarr still retained tactical information regarding Volcania and its arsenal, it would be an invaluable tool in the fight for freedom. Even if the unit turned out to be worthless, he still had to hand it to Robert for his loyalty. The IC could just as easily have had Blastarr in its possession at that point, provided it had not crushed anyone with its immense physical strength and metal girth. Jon seriously questioned what his father would have done if faced with the same dilemma.

"Bring it inside," Jon said, softening his tone. "Let's see what it can tell us."

-------------------

Blastarr was cooperative. Robert was grateful that it showed no sign of resistance to any commands it had been given. They had all agreed on the mission, which was to preserve the unit and glean any information from it without harming its programming. In one sense, though, there was nothing to be harmed. Blastarr was a clean operating system. It knew nothing except what it had been originally given. There were no directives from Lyman Taggart to destroy human life and bring about a world of mechanical madness. In fact, the original directives told it just the opposite – to preserve all life. The human beings studying it now were bound by the same promise.

"Well," Robert said, turning away from the console in the corner of the garage, "it looks like there's a lot of stuff we can use in there. We have a big problem, though."

Jon had perched himself on the workbench, observing the work. "Which is?"

Robert stood and neared Blastarr. "The information we need is going to be a one-time haul. We get one shot at it before the built-in safeties automatically erase the memory module."

"So," Jon said, "we just get it right the first time."

"I wish it were that simple," Robert said, grim. "The autonomic systems are part of the extended memory unit. The operating protocols are interwoven and have been altered by the needs of the extended memory."

"In other words," Jon said in summation, "it altered the OS as went."

Robert nodded. "Either Blastarr or Taggart altered it. It's a learning module, so it's entirely possible Blastarr modified its own code as the situation warranted to guarantee its survival. It certainly has that ability."

Isaiah was standing near Byron on the other side of the room, keeping watch.

"So, what does all that mean?" Isaiah asked slowly.

"It means," Robert said with a sigh, "the more recent stuff will be easy to get, but the core information, like, say, Volcania's internal layout, is more integrated. We're going to have a hell of a time getting what we need without risking Blastarr's consciousness. "

The news caused Blastarr to rise up in alarm. "No!" it shouted, lowering its tracks to the floor of the garage, preparing to escape.

Jon rushed forward to block its escape. "Wait!"

Blastarr froze at the command.

"Just wait," Jon said, putting a hand forth. "There has to be another way, and we're going to find it."

"What if there is not?" Blastarr queried, as nervous as a mech could sound.

Jon picked his words carefully. "I promised a long time ago to protect life – _all_ life. I guess that includes yours."

Blastarr remained in fleeing position but did not move.

"Look," Jon continued, "if I wanted you destroyed, I would have done it when I had the chance. Or, I would have called the IC and had them take you back to headquarters. I didn't. There are three human beings standing here who think you're worth the effort."

Blastarr leaned down close to Jon's face so they were eye to eye. "Do you?"

Jon hesitated, trying to find the right answer. "I think there are millions of lives at stake, and if it means me striking a bargain with you to save them, then it's worth it. We'll do everything we can to preserve you, but you have to understand that your primary protocol is to protect life, too. I guarantee that the information in your memory module is the key to doing that for a lot of people, maybe all that remain in this world."

"But I do not wish to be terminated."

"There may be no other way," Jon said honestly.

The mech straightened but did not move.

"Look," Jon continued, "if you try to run, we'll hunt you down and take what we need. No one will give a damn about your will to live. We can try to do it the right way here, though. And I promise you, we'll do everything we can to make sure you aren't terminated. You have my word."

Blastarr viewed each individual in the room, seeing Byron and Isaiah's weapons drawn toward it. Jon could see the mech calculating the odds of what would happen even if it were able to escape.

In a sudden lurch, Blastarr returned to a passive seating mode. "Proceed."

"Okay," Jon said, nodding in relief. He looked to Robert. "What do we do?"

Robert stood next to Blastarr. "We start gathering the data sector by sector. We'll take the non-integrated first and leave the more complicated stuff for later. That way, we won't touch the operating protocols until we have to. Otherwise, we risk shutting it down. After that, it gets surgical."

Jon looked up at Blastarr. "Does that sound okay?"

Blastarr surveyed the men in the room. "It is acceptable."

Robert moved in carefully and inserted a probe into Blastarr's data port. He looked up at it. "Ready?"

"I am."

The data began flowing into the buffers in the lab. Robert addressed the men. "This is the high level recent data you're seeing. It's going to take a while to get to the stuff we want. You guys go get some rest. I'll take the first watch."

Jon nodded. "Wake me in two hours."

Robert sat down at the console. He checked the dataflow, finding it efficient, just like a machine should be. Packets of information were transferred in an orderly fashion to the memory storage unit. On the surface, it was just numbers – encoded imagery of Blastarr's missions abroad. It was massive amount of data, too. Years of actions were being scraped from Blastarr's module, and it was for the best in the long run. If Blastarr could not access the knowledge, it could not use it to relearn bad behaviors, such as being the big gun for a maniacal leader.

Bored with watching code packets, Robert started a viewing program that showed snapshots of images from each packet. It played like a slideshow. There was too much data for a complete video stream. That would require the resources of the IC's labs. That was a project for a later time. Even though it slowed the whole download process by one to two percent, it was worth it to be able to see what was contained in the data.

He started watching the images, each frame lasting about three seconds before moving on to the next. He surmised the unaffected parts of the memory that were being downloaded occurred just before the memory wipe. It made perfect sense. Once the memory wipe was complete, the recordings started over from a new endpoint, leaving the rest intact. Robert saw a young lieutenant's face and the internal structure of Volcania, but there was nothing of real value.

He looked behind him at Blastarr, realizing he was trusting the machine so much that he would turn his back on it.

"You can power down and regenerate, if you'd like," Robert offered.

Blastarr looked at Robert. "I prefer to remain in a conscious state," it said. It cocked its head slightly to view the console behind Robert. "What are those images?"

Robert glanced at the screen. "It's what's in the higher levels of your permanent memory module, or at least snapshots of it. We'll be able to see everything in video sequence later. From the looks of it, I'd say you've been out of the action for quite a while. There've been a few images where you're pushing cargo on a dock."

"There are many units more capable than this model."

"Yeah, we know," Robert said sadly. "Never thought I'd be saying we'd rather face you than anything else. At least we could knock you down and make a run for it."

"We have done battle?"

"Quite a few times," Robert said, suppressing a grimace at the fact.

Blastarr bent down close to Robert. "That violates my directives," it declared.

"Your original programming, yes. Lyman Taggart altered your code to suit his needs."

The machine sat up straight and stoic. "Show me."

"I don't know if that's such a good…"

"Show me," the machine demanded.

Robert took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He had told Jon that Blastarr was not the same machine that had killed so many, that it did not have knowledge of its past. He had also implored Jon to trust the machine. Now, he found himself toying with the same predicament. He decided to take a chance.

"All right."

He indexed the images, finding the last engagement where a human fighter unit had battled Blastarr. The images of carnage were continuous as the machine blasted bodies into the air only to be frozen forever in an image from its point of view. Some showed a human body being digitized and stored for later use with Overmind or whatever monstrosity Dread had invented.

Robert watched for a reaction from Blastarr. If there was one, he could not see it on the machine's digitally controlled face.

"I do not remember those events," it said finally.

"You shouldn't," Robert said. "They're integrated into your core. Dread probably played them back when he wanted to see our tactics and used that information however he needed."

Robert checked his watch. "It's time for the shift change. You going to be okay while I go get General Power?"

"Affirmative," Blastarr answered, though Robert could see the mech's vision was still focused on the console.

He left the machine to watch the console while he went to wake Jon.

--------------------------

Jon entered the garage quietly, observing Blastarr as it watched the console. He saw the images playing on it, seeing the past laid out in successive order in the pictures. Robert had briefed him on Blastarr's quest to see the playback of images. Memories came back like bullets as Jon watched from a distance. So many innocents had been taken that Jon had forgotten the enormous number until he saw their faces and final moments displayed in digital format.

Blastarr's head turned at a small angle and acknowledged Jon's presence. It was silent, though, and resumed watching the images as Jon sat down at the console.

Finally, Jon spoke, breaking the silence.

"Still have no recall of any of this, eh?"

"I do not. However, the evidence is clear that I carried out these acts."

"Oh, trust me," Jon said, leaning back in the chair, "you did."

Blastarr retracted into a compact sitting mode and squared itself to Jon. "You do not like me."

"No," Jon said honestly. Still, his voice was laced with a hostility he could not control. His jaw was set, teeth grinding with stress.

"You fear me."

"Sometimes, but not right this moment. I know there are others who will do whatever is necessary to stop you if you try to do any harm."

Blastarr resumed its monitoring of the image playback. It seemed to study the content of the images. "That is acceptable and logical."

It felt disconcerting to Jon that Blastarr had no snappy retort, no rhetoric to spew forth regarding its loyalty to Dread or the empire the madman had tried to develop. Instead, it was acting like machines were supposed to act – the way Jon's father had intended. Perhaps Blastarr was a reconciliation of the way things were versus the way they should be. The human race had almost ruined itself. It had relied on machines to fight the good fight. The problem was that Lyman Taggart had taken it too far. It was done before anyone really knew what he was doing. Even Stuart, Jon's father, had no means to stop what had been put in motion except to perhaps ensure that his son lived to continue the fight against the tyranny Taggart had started.

They watched together in silence as the images continued until Robert broke Jon's train of thought.

"Couldn't sleep," he said, clapping Jon on the back. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Jon stood and followed Robert to the other side of the room. They both hopped up and sat on one of the workbenches, away from the machine that continued to survey its past on the console.

"So," Robert said, "how's our guest?"

"Almost done downloading the first level," Jon reported.

"Anything significant in the playback?"

Jon took a deep breath. "Nothing I don't think the IC already knows."

Robert slipped out of his uniform jacket and dropped it on the table next to him. "I would have been surprised if there was. What we need isn't exactly on the surface. It's buried deep in the core. To be honest, I don't know how we're going to get it out of there without harming Blastarr's consciousness. The ideal way to do it would be to remove the module entirely."

Jon saw Blastarr's head turn just a bit at the mention of its name, but it said nothing.

"You already know my opinion on that," Jon said, his jaw clenching again.

"Yes, sir, and you know mine."

Something snapped in Jon. He was sure it had audible qualities, for it was so quick and violent that it surged forth like lightning. He leaned forward, almost in Robert's face.

"Take a good look at that screen," Jon seethed. "Those are people on there. A lot of them are dead because of this thing," he said, pointing at Blastarr.

"They're dead because someone told it to do horrible acts," Robert countered.

"No," Jon said quickly. "No, you said it was sentient. So, did it just become sentient now? It was sentient then, and it made choices. Sentient beings do that – they make choices, and they can correct mistakes. Show me one thing on that screen that says it's made amends in any way."

The colonel was silent.

"It's a killer, Robert," Jon said, pulling back a bit. "It killed Jennifer and a lot of other people we cared about, in case you've forgotten."

The comment went too far. Jon knew the words stung, and he instantly regretted uttering them.

"No, sir, I haven't forgotten," Robert said, just barely controlling his tone. "But adding another wrong to this whole thing doesn't make the past go away. It doesn't right it, either. We have to move forward, and that means upholding our promises as human beings. I saw plenty of times when you didn't take a shot you could have because of those damned high morals you used to have. Apparently, they don't apply anymore."

"That's because maybe I was wrong. Compassion got us nowhere except on the run."

"It's all we have left," Robert argued. "Look," he said, calming, "I know it's hard to see all this and accept how things have changed, but they have. This machine came looking for help. It's afraid. Isn't that what we wanted all along – that they were as afraid of us as we were of them? Well, now you have it."

Jon rubbed at his face with his hand, feeling the stubble that plagued his chin. His eyes burned with a lack of sleep and high emotion. His insides churned with feelings he thought were suppressed and unable to harm him anymore. The images on the playback brought them back with a vengeance.

"The lives of so many depend on what's in that module," he told Robert, calming. He forced the tension in his shoulders away, letting them drop into a more comfortable state. "It's a machine to me. That's all it's ever going to be."

Robert saw the opening to make an argument. "What if someone told you the answer to the war was in your memories, but to get to them they'd have to stop your heart? Sure, they promise to revive you, but could you trust them?"

"If the key to saving lives was in my head, you know my answer would be to go get it, no matter the risk. That's what human beings do. This is different."

"No, it's not. It's exactly what we're talking about here, sir. Blastarr will cease to exist as it knows life if that module is removed."

"You didn't have a problem trying to kill it when we were a team all those years ago."

"We didn't have the opportunity we have right now. Our obligation was different."

Blastarr looked content in its passive mode, for as content as a mech could look. It had not altered its position except to view images on the console at different angles with its head from time to time. To Jon, there was a kind of innocence about it that even he could not deny.

"Let's say hypothetically you could take the module out," Jon began. "Then what?"

"Well, it would disconnect the temporary memory from the power source, which would erase everything it knows after its escape from Volcania."

"So, a clean OS?"

Robert nodded. "It would be the machine your father helped build, not the one Taggart made. That's barring anything out of the ordinary."

"Such as?"

Robert hesitated. "There's a good chance we might not be able to get it started. It could die, never to wake up."

Jon looked down at the floor, pensive.

"You're in a win-win no matter what," Robert said with an air of defeat. "One way or another, we're going to get the information in the module."

Jon looked up and studied the machine again. "It's just a matter of how we do it."

--------------------

The machine listened to the conversation between the two organics, certain that they were unaware of its surveillance. It routed its processing to the attenuators, enhancing its reception of the quiet exchange. The graphical analysis of their voices indicated high stress levels. The information contained in their words was more than it had been able to ascertain thus far in its travels. It now had the answer why organics had fled when the machine had approached them for guidance and assistance. It deduced that it was a machine of destruction, of killing, in its past.

Its journey from home base had been long and sometimes arduous. The unit was capable of sensing other like units in the area and was able to access some streams of tactical communication that had allowed it to avoid patrols and those assigned to return it to home base, by force if necessary. It sensed danger if it returned and had no desire to do so. The order for termination was certain.

The organics had not attempted to harm it in any way, though there was little harm the machine could have done without any weaponry among its attachments. It was positive that the weapons that were shown in the memory download were no longer accessible or perhaps even needed. More data would be required to make that determination as to their disposition.

The images on the console did provide key points of its history, however. During its journey, the machine had felt unsure at times due to a lack of historical data. It moved forward, searching for any links to the information that would augment its lack of direction. The farmers had been the first to actually address the machine and query it for its mission.

The digital images on the console were disturbing, violating every human protection directive in the machine's system. Had it not been for verification algorithms that proved the source of the video feed, it might not have accepted that it had done what was shown. It was always possible that information had been transferred in error from another unit, though it was mathematically unlikely.

The only logical conclusion was that the machine had put human lives in peril, violating its directives. It also concluded from the conversation with the organics that its permanent memory storage contained crucial data that would prevent other machines from following those same misguided directives. The machine had witnessed several areas of mass destruction during its journey and saw the fear when organics ran to hide from its approach. It had not made sense at the time, but now it did. The equation had been completed. The solution was at hand. There could be only one answer, though it was certainly not a desirable one in the machine's list of possibilities.

Blastarr waited for the right moment when the organics were distracted and pulled its permanent memory module free from its arm, placing it carefully on the console. It locked the port door, sealing off access to the module bay. Warning messages lit up on its internal system, giving it twenty seconds to reinstall the module before power to the core was depleted. The machine saw the organics react, but it knew they would not traverse the area in time to replace the module.

The warning ticked down to ten seconds, but it was impossible they would be able to get the module seated in time before the core's depletion.

Blastarr watched in microseconds as the remainder of its life passed and it slipped into non-existence.

-----------------------

Jon launched himself off the workbench toward the mech when he realized what was happening. There was no need to verbalize what was wrong. Robert had seen it at the same time when the memory module clunked lightly on the console. They crossed the floor of the garage in only a few strides.

Blastarr watched their approach. It froze in position as its systems shut down completely, extinguishing the red glow of its eyes and chest plate.

"Dammit!" Scout yelled, frantically trying to pry open the port door. He stopped when he knew it was of no use.

They stood there, awestruck that the decision had been made for them. The machine had chosen its own destiny, not them. It had given up its cybernetic life for the sake of the directives it had been given. It was nothing short of a heroic act.

Jon looked at Robert, his jaw slightly agape with the shock of the moment. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Robert held the module in his hand, staring at it. Then he looked at Jon with accusing eyes. "Are you?" he asked.

With that, he walked toward the transport with the memory module in his hand.

-------------------

Delta-shaped shadows slid over the landscape of the city that was in the process of rebuilding itself. Robert looked out the window of the lab, seeing squadron after squadron leave the base on their way to secure more and more airspace from machine control. They had the secret now to defeating the tyranny that had ruled over the planet for what seemed a lifetime. Machines that had once been invincible were falling in record numbers. That was not to say the battles were easy. Troops were still being lost during the engagements, but ground was being gained sector by sector. More citizens were joining the fight for freedom, determined to once again to bring peace to the world – their organic world, not one ruled by machines. The line of demarcation had been advanced, and Dread's sphere of power was shrinking. Blastarr's memory module had been the key to it all. The IC had the upper hand, and it was using it to the fullest.

He turned away from the display of air power to the project at hand. Blastarr's hull sat in the middle of his IC lab, dark and silent. Robert returned to the console and sat down in the high-backed chair. Wires protruded from the computer, attached to the machine's processing unit. He checked the startup protocols again, just for good measure.

"Ready?"

Jon Power stepped from behind the machine where he had been making some final adjustments.

"Let's give it a shot, Scout," the retired general said with a nod.

"If this works," Robert said, calling up the program, "it's a brand new day."

Jon gave a cautious smile. "Let's see if my programming skills are as good as my father's first. Then we'll call it that."

Robert issued the command for the startup sequence to begin. Blastarr's displays lit up in a new blue glow, a personal touch on Robert's part to erase the sins of the past.

The two men waited anxiously for the boot sequence to complete. When it was done, the machine's head moved, surveying its surroundings and finally focusing on Jon.

"State your designation," Jon commanded.

The machine addressed the organic as directed.

"I am unit zero-zero-one."

Jon took a deep breath. "And what is your function?"

There was a hesitation as the new command set was accessed.

"Agricultural propagation." The machine leaned down and was suddenly at eye level with Jon. "I am a farmer." It paused. "Query."

"Go ahead," Jon said, never taking his eyes off the machine's.

"According to my data, this is an urban environment," Blastarr declared.

"Correct," Robert confirmed, unable to contain his pleasure at their success at restarting the machine successfully with the new protocol.

"There are no major agricultural projects in this region to utilize my abilities."

Jon allowed himself a smile at the mech's quandary. "That is a problem, isn't it?"

Another set of squadrons flew over the lab toward the front, a front that had moved far enough away from Isaiah Brown's tribe to call the land safe from enemy incursions.

"Don't worry," Robert told the machine. "I know where to find one."


End file.
